“What I can’t fathom is the relationship between a priest and one of the Sedgwick family,” Rutledge said. “It doesn’t fit into any explanation I can think of.”

“Actually it was probably nothing more complicated than the fact that Virginia Sedgwick had a grandmother who was Catholic. Father James mentioned that in passing. Mrs. Dabney had been terribly fond of her. If Virginia was homesick, I expect she’d be drawn to something familiar. And Father James had a very practical faith. If she’d come to him, troubled or lonely or just needing comfort, he’d have tried to help her without proselytizing.”

“The Vicar would have been closer to her age,” Rutledge speculated.

But Miss Trent was saying, “I wasn’t very attentive, I’m afraid, although Father James did his best to bring her alive for me.” She had the grace to flush. “I didn’t want to be interested in her. I didn’t want to find myself thinking about her, and then starting to dig into the blackness—I couldn’t face it!”

Her eyes pleaded with him for understanding. “It sounds quite selfish and callous to say that. Especially now that he’s dead. But there was nothing I could do for Virginia Sedgwick, was there? And the thing was, I couldn’t bear to go back. And I couldn’t explain why I couldn’t go back. It’s such a simple question, isn’t it? ‘Do you remember?’ ”

“I think he must have believed that, given time, you would remember—otherwise he wouldn’t have chosen to leave you that photograph.”

May Trent said, “Knowing that—now that he’s dead— puts a tremendous burden on me. I don’t quite see how to cope with it. I wish he hadn’t—!”

“But then he hadn’t expected to die within a matter of days.”

The shock of that left her silent for a moment. “Yes. I see your way of putting all this together. If he harried me, I must have killed him, just for a little peace. But he didn’t. I know he was the sort of man who believed that good would triumph. That one morning I’d sit up in bed and suddenly remember meeting this woman on the deck or in the dining rooms, the card rooms. Somewhere. After all, women traveling alone tend to gravitate toward each other—it wouldn’t have been so amazing if our paths had crossed.”

Mrs. Barnett came in with a tray bearing hot platters and trailing an aroma of beef in a wine sauce. She set their plates down with care, studying the faces at the table. “I’m so sorry, Miss Trent, but there isn’t any more soup.”

“I’m not really hungry. But thank you.” When she had gone, May Trent said, “I don’t think I can swallow a mouthful—what am I going to do . . . !”